


Sam and Steve's Infinite Playlist

by debwalsh



Series: Take Up Your Shield and Follow Me [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, History through Music, M/M, Mentions of Riley's death, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Past is prologue, Post-CATWS Road Trip, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rediscovering your bliss, Sam Wilson - pianist, Sam Wilson Feels, Steve Rogers - artist, Steve Rogers - man out of time, Steve Rogers - soldier, mentions of 9/11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 10:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/pseuds/debwalsh
Summary: In the wake of the fall of the Triskelion, Sam and Steve take the long way round en route to New York and Sam gets an opportunity to school Captain America in music of the past century. But a detour gives Steve an opportunity to reconnect with a side of himself few people know ... and it just might inspire Sam to rediscover a side of himself that's been silent for too long.In which Sam learns that Steve was a real artist who no longer believes he deserves the art, and Steve learns that Sam has music in his bones, but no longer believes he deserves the music. Can they inspire each other to take back their souls?Art by lasenbyphoenix, a gift for OriginalCeeNote, written for the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang!





	Sam and Steve's Infinite Playlist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OriginalCeenote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/gifts).



> So, this started out as a filler chapter in Take Up Your Shield and Follow Me, my post-CATWS epic that is still in progress. When I posted a list of ideas asking for feedback on what my next project should be, OriginalCeeNote asked for this one. And shortly after, I heard about the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang. It seemed a match made in heaven, and the story - which consisted of a few notes at the start of the summer - got dusted off. I'm thrilled to share it, and to give it as a gift to OriginalCeeNote, author of many stories that touch and enthrall me, that make me happy and fill me with joy.
> 
> As I started to play with ideas, do some research, and generally sink into this story, I found a tale buried under the idea that I simply fell in love with. I've lived through losing my art, and rediscovering it. Feeling like there is something missing, but feeling unworthy to reclaim it. If there's a lesson to be learned, it's our art - whatever that may be - is part of who we are, and we are always worthy of it.
> 
> Shout out to [LasenbyPhoenix](http://lasenbyphoenix.tumblr.com) for their fabulous art! Thank you so much!

* * *

* * *

The van was packed, the bike secured, and the few belongings Steve owned outside the Smithsonian exhibit were stowed in a depressingly small pile of boxes stowed behind a rope-mesh cradle so they wouldn’t shift in transit. Steve looked at the things that accompanied his life and sighed. Well, he travelled light and he wasn’t weighed down by earthly things, he supposed. He placed the last box, containing the things he used most, on the stack of boxes with a sense of finality. Considering the stack, he shook his head, opened the box, and dug out the book he was currently reading. He stared for a moment, and then grabbed a small notebook – not his “to do list” notebook, but an unlined notebook. He snagged a pencil from the scatter inside the box, one with a decent eraser at the end, and nodded to himself. He’d need something to occupy his time on the trip up to New York, especially since Sam had announced that he wasn’t risking his neck on Steve’s driving anytime soon.

“That everything?” Sam asked from the tailgate.

“Everything worth anything, yeah,” Steve agreed. “Anything else is at the Smithsonian, or in private collections.”

“Man, that’s gotta be weird, having your stuff in people’s collections. Like you’re somebody famous or something,” he added with a grin. Then his expression sobered, brown eyes narrowing as he asked, “Could you sue to get that stuff back? I mean, no one really had the right to sell your stuff, did they?”

“Don’t know,” Steve said, jumping down from the bed of the van. “I’m not really worried about it, I guess. The most precious things, to me, at least, are at the Smithsonian, and they’ve already promised to return them all after the exhibit’s done. I guess there’s some benefit to being an ‘American icon’,” he added with a twisted smile. “Plus, you know, being alive.”

“Guarantees you the best table in restaurants,” Sam put out there as he hauled the double doors at the back of the van closed and secured the lock. “Lots of people are eager to make nice to a real American hero.”

“Lots of people are eager to be _seen_ making nice to a so-called real American hero,” Steve corrected, shoving the notebook and pencils into his backpack, and the book into his jacket pocket. Then he walked around to the passenger side and climbed in with his backpack. He arranged the backpack at his feet as he slotted the seatbelt in place, clicking it home.

Sam hauled his ass into the driver’s seat, settled in, holding his hand poised over the keys in the ignition.

“So. Scenic, or fast?”

“Say again?”

“Scenic route, or fast trip? Gotta program it into the GPS. So what’ll it be?”

Steve considered the question in silence for a long moment, remembering the drive from DC to Camp Lehigh with Natasha during the lead-up to the Hydra uprising. They’d started on highway and then had to shift to local roads. He realized in his life how little he’d seen of America, growing up in Brooklyn, moving to Camp Lehigh for Basic, back to Brooklyn for Dr. Erskine’s experiment, and then cities across the country with no breaks to actually see the country. And then, on to Europe. 

Since the ice, he’d only seen New York and DC, really, airports and hotels, none of the in-between places, and little west of New Jersey. For an American icon, he’d experienced little of America.

“Scenic,” Steve answered decisively.

“So, skipping the interstates. Cool. Hate getting stuck on 95. That’ll add some time to the trip. So like really scenic-scenic, no major highways?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, let’s see something of America on our way.”

“No highways, got it. Okay, GPS says that’ll take over seven hours heading straight toward the Big Apple from here. It’s a little over three if we book it up 95. Hah! Like that’ll ever happen. Guaranteed parking lot at least part of the way.”

“’S’okay. Not like I got anything waiting for me there.”

“Y’got friends. Some pretty powerful friends.”

Steve shrugged. “Do I? Yeah, I guess. More like co-workers, I think. I don’t know.”

“Got a friend here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. Thanks, Sam.”

“Well, I’d like to imagine Natasha’s waitin’ for me at Stark Tower, but we both know that’s unlikely. I haven’t told my folks we’re coming, so they’re not waiting on us. But you know you’re gonna have to put in an appearance at Casa Wilson while you’re in New York. My Dad is gonna want to quiz you, and Mama’ll wanna feed you.”

“Sounds great. Been a lifetime since I sat down to a proper family dinner,” Steve answered wistfully, the warmth and chaos of Sunday dinner at the Barnes household, chairs smushed together to make room for him and his Ma, Steve happily leaning into Bucky as he reached for the heaping dish of fresh whipped potatoes. He smiled at the memory, letting his eyes drift closed for a second so he could take a whiff of that imaginary roast, those ghostly potatoes, the memory of vegetables fresh from the green grocer.

Sam, bless him, gave him that moment to wallow in the past, then cut it off with a chuckle. “Ain’t nothing proper about a Wilson family dinner. I can promise you won’t be the only lost lamb Mama will be feeding, and the china may not be grand, but the food’ll be good, and the company better. It may not be proper, but it will feed your soul as well as that super soldier appetite. Good thing it’s the beginning of the week – if we warn her when we get there, it’ll give her a couple of days to get ready.”

“I don’t want to put anyone out –“

“Seriously? You think my folks won’t be thrilled to meet the man who helped save New York City? Twice? Not to mention the world. How many times was that, huh? Or are you so heroic you’ve stopped counting? You don’t really know, do ya. You’re such a hero, hey, I saved the world, no big –“

“C’mon, Sam, you know I’m not like that –“

“I do. Which is why my folks will be thrilled to meet you. Might even have to change your last name after they adopt you. You can be my little brother. Captain Steve Wilson – s’gotta good ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up, meatball. We gettin’ on the road anytime soon?”

Sam looked at Steve and full-on grinned, held up the car key, then inserted it in the ignition with exaggerated movements until the engine turned over and purred. “So, scenic-scenic it is. And maybe we find a nice place to stay overnight, really take our time. You’re paying, right?” Sam asked with a sideways grin at Steve. Steve huffed out a laugh and nodded.

Sam programmed the GPS and then mounted his iPod on the dash, tapping a few strokes to pull up the music app. 

“What are you doing?”

“Setting the soundtrack, Cap. ‘Bout time you got a proper lesson in American music. What’s the last record you bought before the war?”

“Oh, couldn’t really afford to buy records, we’d listen to them at the music store, memorize ‘em to hum back to each other at home. Mostly we listened on the wireless. Buck liked to dance to the big bands. Sometimes … sometimes I’d join him.”

“You and Bucky.”

Steve nodded, chewing on his lower lip. 

“Okay, last song you did that to. Danced with your boy.”

“ _Chattanooga Choo-Choo_ , I think. We both loved Glenn Miller. And then there was _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy_. The Andrews Sisters were swell,” Steve added with a smile, feeling a touch of the dreamy sway of the music, the heat of Bucky’s hand in the small of his back, the way he could get lost in the melody.

“Swell, huh?” Sam grunted, yanking Steve back to the present. “Yeah, we’re really gonna have to work on that. You know my Dad’s an English prof at Columbia. He’s gonna expect his childhood hero to have a more … heroic vocabulary. ”

“Watch it, meatball, you said I’m a goddamned true American hero,” Steve riposted with a grin. “Whatever the hell that means.”

“It means that you only get so much leeway before people realize you’re a world class nerd with a wardrobe out of an old movie and a vocabulary nobody’s heard in 50 years or more. Come to think of it, Dad might like that – you could be the subject of his next monograph. ‘Etymology of American Vernacular Between World War II and the Present Day’. He’s gonna love you!”

“I like my wardrobe,” Steve grumbled as he pulled out his book and hunkered down in the seat to start reading. “And my vocabulary.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure so did my Grandpa,” Sam chuckled, and picked a song from the playlist. “Grandpa probably liked this, too – might sound a little familiar,” he introduced, and the van filled with the sultry strings supporting Billie Holiday’s velvet voice singing _Lover Man (Oh Where Can You Be?)._

&&&

They’d cut across the Beltway and were tacking slightly west toward Rockville as their musical journey moved into the early 1950s. They’d listened to Holiday, Piaf, and a smattering of Woody Guthrie and early Pete Seeger and the Weavers. Steve liked all of the music that Sam had played so far, and he’d asked about more songs recorded by Lady Day, the great Billie Holiday. “Buck and I rode the train up to Harlem to hear her sing once. Some fellas that worked the docks with Buck couldn’t shut up about her. Cost us both nearly a week’s wages, but man, was it worth it,” Steve murmured dreamily.

“You actually heard Billie Holiday perform,” Sam demanded incredulously. “The actual Lady Day and you, little scrawny white boy Steve Rogers, in the same room, at the same time, with actual music?”

“Yeah, we had to do some tap dancing that night. Think I might have faked an asthma attack so they’d go easy on us and let us stay,” Steve admitted, head tilted but betraying a sly smile. “I swear, Buck was floating. And then when he got out on the dance floor … well, he learned a few moves that night, for sure, but he gave as good as he got.”

“You’re just a bundle of surprises aren’t you? What other famous people did you meet when you were little?”

“You mean actually little, or when I was younger?”

“Answer the question.”

“I dunno. Always dreamed of going to the Cotton Club. There was this singer, she was born in Brooklyn, same year as me, and I remember she did okay in Hollywood. Name was Lena Horne. Damn, she was beautiful, and her voice … I was hoping I might meet her during that stint in Hollywood before they let me go to Europe, but I wasn’t that lucky –“

“You were in Hollywood.”

“Never seen any of my movies? Good, they were horrible. Enough about me, play some more Billie. And then find me some Lena.”

&&&

* * *

* * *

The 1950s progressed through the legendary female vocalists, the smooth male singers, and the advent of rockabilly segueing into rock’n’roll as they tacked west through Maryland, but when Sam was about to select another song midway through the decade, Steve placed his hand over the phone. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking. If we keep going west, we’ll hit West Virginia, right?”

“We’d have to make more of an effort to really go west, but yeah. But that’s the opposite direction of New York.”

“There’s a place I’d like to visit. A place I heard of a long time ago, always wanted to go there. Would you mind?”

“Well, now you’ve piqued my curiosity. I gotta go. Where is it?”

Steve described the location and added what he was looking for. They’d only been on a road a little under two hours, but seemed as good a time to take a break as any, so Sam pulled off the road in Finksburg and found a diner. While they ate their lunch, he Googled the location, showed Steve the stock photo of the place, and queued up directions in his GPS app.

“Gonna tell me what this about?” Sam asked over his cobbler.

“When we get there. It’ll make sense then,” Steve replied, taking a sip of his coffee. “Or it won’t.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m getting used to you being all mysterious.”

“Me? Do you know I hardly know anything about you? I mean, actual details. I know you served, that you lost someone very important. I know you like to help others, and I know I can trust you. But I don’t know where you’re from, whether you have siblings – my life is in the history books, but what about you?”

“The history books didn’t mention anything about seeing Billie Holiday perform live, and they kinda gloss over your Hollywood career. And other than a few out there monographs, there’s nothing in the history books to suggest you were anything but hetero. So I’m pretty sure the history books aren’t telling the whole story.”

“Of course not. They’re telling the story of Captain America, not Steve Rogers. Captain America didn’t cross the boroughs to see Billie, Steve did.”

“You always see yourself as two people?”

“I see the public relations icon Senator Brandt made, but he’s not me. The guy that Fox News uses as the yardstick for conservatism? ‘What Would Captain America Do?’ C’mon, Sam! I was a card carrying Socialist when I was 18. Switched to Republican when I registered to vote.”

“You were a _Republican_.”

“That was the progressive party of the time. At least until Roosevelt got in office, and then we were headed down the road to Socialism. Too bad he put the brakes on, huh?”

“Seriously?”

“Nationalized health care, everyone contributing to the communal well-being, services for all, not just the rich? What’s not to like, huh? But he didn’t go far enough. Had the opportunity, and didn’t take it, not all the way.”

“So you do have opinions.”

“I have opinions. They just won’t play well on national TV. I don’t agree with a lot of what people are doing. I don’t agree with a lot of what President Ellis does. But SHIELD … well, let’s say they assigned me a PR handler. I didn’t get to talk much.”

“That may have worked in your favor during the hearings. If the Senate committee had known Captain America could be so salty, they might not have been so deferential.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“So no one at SHIELD knew your political opinions. I’m assuming no one knows about … about the other thing, the men –“

“There’ve been no men. Only –“

“Yeah, I had a feeling that’s how it is. Your boy, huh?” Steve’s expression was silent and eloquent. “So, none of the Avengers know? Stark, the god, Natasha, all of them?”

“Well, there’s only Dr. Banner and Barton left after that. But no. They don’t need to know. Natasha’s bad enough trying to set me up with women! I don’t need her pulling in men, too. I’ve never actually told anyone before I told you.”

“No one?’’

“Well, Bucky … Bucky knew how I felt, once upon a time. But no one else, no.”

“Well, then, I am honored, Captain Rogers, that you trust me with your secret. Seriously. It’s safe with me.”

“I know. It’s weird, y’know?

“What is?”

“Having a friend who’s not Bucky. Who’s not also … just, not also.”

“Yeah, sorry to break it to you, you’re great and all, but nah.”

“Nah?”

“Not my type, sorry. Now hold onto your seat, ‘cos I’m about to introduce you to one of the most influential white men who should’ve been born black. Steve Rogers, meet Elvis Presley.”

&&&

Presley was just a gateway drug for Steve. _Love Me Tender_ led to _Jailhouse Rock_ , which led to Jerry Lee Lewis and _Great Balls of Fire,_ Nat King Cole and _Mona Lisa_ then _Unforgettable_ (leaving Steve brushing away tears), The Platters and _The Great Pretender_ , Richie Havens and _La Bamba_ , Dave Brubeck and _Take 5_ , with Bill Haley and the Comets and _Rock Around the Clock_ , and the list could go on and on, but Sam was intent on bringing Steve into the new millennium by the time they hit Stark’s.

After chatting a bit about performers like Cole and Belafonte struggling to break the color barrier, while Presley’s hips were a challenge to censors, they moved on to the turbulent ‘60s with Dylan, Baez, Seeger again (still), Peter Paul and Mary, seguing into the Beach Boys and the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Hendrix, Joplin, Starship, the Mamas and the Papas. Little Stevie Wonder growing into one of the powerhouses of the industry. Charles. Cash. Jones. The post-Beatles Lennon and his love-in. Ravi Shankar. Loretta Lynn. Marvin Gaye and Jim Croce. 

They’d settled into a groove with the late ‘60s, Summer of Love and Woodstock, as they crossed through Frederick, Maryland and found their way toward Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, alternating between psychedelic and folk, throwing in some vintage Sinatra and following up with Grace Slick’s soaring vocals. Steve was humming along, sometimes frowning as he tried to make out the lyrics. Sam finally took pity on him and pulled into a shopping center so he could show Steve how to use the Genius app on his phone, and from there on out, Steve was belting out songs like he’d been awake in the decade.

Sam felt such pride. He was gonna modernize this guy yet, help him acclimate, and start letting go of the demons that plagued him.

And he had to admit that a good old fashioned sing-along with an enthusiastic student who also boasted a decent voice was kind of fun. It was something he hadn’t indulged in since the last trip he and his family had taken when he was a kid. The songs might be different – no Mouse Club tunes on the playlist – but the feeling wasn’t so different. Letting the music take him where he needed to go. It’d been a while.

They continued roughly southwest from Harpers Ferry, tacking deeper into West Virginia along the route of the Shenandoah.

Finally, the map app led him down a narrow country lane bracketed on both sides by orchards and fields. Long driveways jutted off the road, toward houses that were hidden in the distance by trees and more trees. It felt like driving down a long, green tunnel. And then the vista opened up, and handsome stone walls sat a few feet back from the verge, giving the sense of the road widening, and signs started to appear for something called “Conway Library.”

“This what you’re looking for?” he asked Steve. Steve nodded, so Sam hit pause on the music, dropping the cabin into sudden and empty silence.

“Gonna tell me about it?” Sam pressed, but Steve shook his head. 

“It’ll make more sense once we get there. I’m not exactly sure what we’re gonna find. But I’ve always been curious.”

Sam shrugged, and left the playlist idle while they followed the directions of the GPS, as well as the signs that punctuated the route. 

Finally, they turned off the main road onto a wide avenue bordered on each side by low stone walls holding back a riot of flowers, trees, and climbing vines. Everything was carefully tended, yet there was still a sense of wildness, of age. Soon, they slid under a colonnade of tall trees, the canopy of their leaves forming an arch overhead, light filtered down to the roadway through the greenery, leaving Sam feeling like they were moving underwater.

At last the road opened up onto a long, low building and a circular driveway that wound around an old fountain. A small billboard off to the side announced the building as the Conway Library, built in 1939 by the WPA.

“You work on this?” Sam asked, once again caught in the dizzying juxtaposition of the man beside him, and the years in which he’d lived.

“Maybe,” Steve grinned at him.

“You don’t remember if you were in the back of beyond?”

“Oh, I’ve never been here before. But, just maybe, part of me is still here.”

“I don’t do cryptic, man. And you’re no good at it anyway. Mind speaking plain?”

“Let’s go.”

Sam pulled the van into an empty spot – there were many, only a couple of cars present, indicating the place was, at least, open. Curious, he followed Steve into the building, where the old duffer made a beeline for the information desk.

“Pardon me, Ma’am? This library was built by the WPA. Is there a mural here from that time?”

The older woman smiled at Steve’s earnest, aw-shucks grins. Older than Sam. Younger than Steve. Damn, but his whole perception of time and his place in it was screwed trying to place Steve in context. Yeah, maybe there was no point, he reminded himself as the woman blushed and smiled at Steve, leaving her post to escort them to the mural in question. She stood with them for a moment, giving them the canned history of the piece, a wall-sized painting of the building of a railroad through country dotted with hills, mountains, valleys, and green farmland. “West Virginia played a major role in linking the East Coast to the Midwest and beyond,” she added proudly.

“Thanks, Ms., ah –“

“Gimble. Adrienne Gimble. And you’re …?”

“Steve. Grant. Steven Grant,” Steve introduced himself, extending his hand to her. She grinned and took it. “And this quiet fella is my friend Sam. We’re taking the scenic route to New York City.”

“From where?”

“DC.”

“Well, you’re a little off course here, but you know, this really is a fine example of what the WPA could do. The architecture is beautiful, the lands around us are gorgeous – it’s a public park that borders on the Shenandoah, you can take a wander up the road to the inn and stay a while. This building has been in continuous use since construction ended in 1939. Folks are fond of this old girl – brought a lot of work into the area when it was built, and the mural both celebrated our area and gave folks the chance to learn new skills.” A faint ding interrupted her, and she turned back toward her desk with a start. A patron was waiting to be checked out. “Oh! Well, let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be right over here,” she explained, hurrying back to the desk.

After she’d scurried back to her desk to help a library patron, Sam turned to Steve with a raised eyebrow and an expectant air. “Steven Grant? Any relation to Ulysses S.?”

“Steven Grant Rogers. My full name. SGR,” he said, nodding toward the mural. His fingers reached out and he traced in the air a shape in the railroad trestle.

Sam bent and peered closer. “Is that? No way! Your initials?”

“Yep. I designed this mural in 1937 for the Federal Art Project arm of the WPA. I wasn’t able to travel to work on its installation directly, so I never knew what it looked like ultimately. Or if my signature survived. But there it is,” he added proudly.

“You’re an artist. Like, a _real_ artist.”

“I was. I did this sort of thing, poster design, door painting, comic art for Timely for a while. Some illustration work, even had a couple of covers on a few of what you’d call pulps today.”

“And now?”

“I … I’m not. An artist. I’m not an artist anymore. I … yeah, I’m just not.”

“Why not?”

“I went to war,” Steve answered simply, no real inflection, no regret or emotion in his voice, just a simple statement of fact.

He was an artist who went to war and what? Lost his art?

Suddenly the gaps between them seemed, well, less. Not as significant. Oh, there was the whole issue of the decades in which they were each born, the stratas of society, the serum, of course … but Sam realized they had more in common than dedication and memories of a theatre of war burned into their bones. 

Sam considered this in silence for a while, studying the mural and taking in the story it told. Not just the industrial age coming into the country as illustrated workers linked two routes of railways to form a new, larger system. But the vibrance, the energy, the detail of the art before him. This wasn’t drawn by someone who got by with stick figures. Steven Grant Rogers, artist, had talent. Talent he’d forsaken in the face of war.

“So how’d you design this?”

“I originally drew it on butcher paper I begged from old Mr. Grundy down the block. I drew free advertising for him for a year to pay off that paper. I’d sketched it small, and then I had to transfer it to a larger canvas. By the time I was done, it was basically a paint by number. And they followed my design, right down to the shapes inside the shapes,” he added, grinning, and nodding toward the hidden signature.

“But the art. Don’t you miss it?”

“Sure I do.”

“You’ve got talent, Steve. Why aren’t you using it?”

“I’m not that guy anymore, Sam. I told you – I’m not an artist anymore. I’m a soldier.”

The overwhelming sadness that welled up inside Sam surprised him. And he couldn’t be sure if he was sad for the artist that Steve Rogers should have been, or for himself.

&&&

They stayed at the mural for a while longer, chatting amiably about the images and themes, the execution and design. Ms. Gimble found a break in her stream of library clientele, so she came over to join them and answer any questions they might have. She seemed genuinely proud of the mural and what it meant to the community, both when it was painted back in the Roosevelt administration, and into the present day.

“We’re not just a library, you know. We’re also a community center, an internet lounge, an art gallery … the building was designed to be multi-purpose, and we’ve been lucky in our funding over the years. It’s been a real boon, as we’re able to provide services. We’ve got quite a nice contingent of elderly folk who come in regularly to use the computers. Some of them are vets – one or two actually worked on this building and the Lodge.”

“Any of them work on the mural?” Steve asked eagerly.

“Not that I know of. But if you’re going to be around more than just this afternoon, the vets get together here for coffee and donuts in the morning, hash over old times, complain about the younger generation, and work on charitable projects.”

“Charitable projects?” Sam asked, intrigued. He was always on the lookout for low impact, comfort building activities for his groups. He wasn’t above poaching good ideas from old duffers in rural America.

“Different things. Knitted projects, lures, even soap making. They , well, they call it ‘adopt’ deployed soldiers, sometimes squads or whole units. And they make stuff for them. Sometimes it’s things they decide to make, sometimes it’s from a wish list the soldiers provide. On big projects, they get the whole community involved. It’s a great thing – keeps them active and vital, and lets them give back to our soldiers who’re far away from home, y’know?”

“Huh, that’s a great idea. But knitting?”

“Yeah. Knitting was a big activity on the front. Kept you busy, and always meant you had a warm pair of socks or a set of mittens when you needed them. Sometimes units would be waiting, just waiting, for days on end. Knitting passed the time, and it didn’t get anyone tossed in the brig,” Steve supplied with a grin.

“You knit?”

“Crochet, too.”

“No shit, man! You really are a man of many talents. I’m tellin’ ya, Cap, y’got the makings of a whole new career in peacetime.”

“Oh, what do you do? Oh, I’m sorry – occupational hazard. Curiosity. Librarians are loaded with curiosity.”

“I’m between, um, assignments right now. But I’m in public service now.”

“But you served,” she guessed, her demeanor grown serious. Steve nodded. She glanced at Sam, and he nodded as well. “Well. Thank you both for your service. Coffee and donuts are served at 8 – I’m sure the men and women of the group would love to have you join them.”

Steve seemed to get bashful then, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as a blush rose on his pale cheeks. Sam grinned at his discomfort, and nodded toward Ms. Gimble. “We’ll keep that in mind. So, is there a place you’d recommend? For us to stay over. And eat. This one may look like a male model, but he eats like an Olympic weightlifter.”

Steve swatted Sam lightly in the abdomen, and Sam knew that Steve had consciously pulled the motion so he wouldn’t send Sam careening right into the mural. 

Ms. Gimble was more than happy to recommend accommodations and a place to eat, and both were found in the Conway Lodge several miles further up the road. “Like the library, the Lodge was built as part of the WPA. There’s another mural off the lobby, very similar in tone to this one. In fact, I’ve always suspected they were designed by the same artist.”

“What makes you think that?” Steve asked, a touch of nerves in his voice.

“See that railroad trestle there?” she asked, pointing to the spot where Steve had revealed his initials earlier. “SGR. That’s the artist’s signature! I’m sure of it! If you look closely at the Lodge mural, there’s a similar insignia buried in the art as well. It’s a lovely bit of rebellion, don’t you think? Hiding the signature in plain sight like that?”

“So there’s another mural like this one. Well, whaddya know? We’re gonna have to check it out, won’t we, Steve?”  
  


“Yeah. Yeah, I’d really like to see that.” The breathless quality of Steve’s voice caught Sam’s attention, and he turned toward his friend to regard him clinically for a moment. Shock, maybe, not the dangerous kind, but a real surprise. He couldn’t wait to get him out of the library so he could quiz him on this new and tantalizing development.

Ms. Gimble was also watching Steve intently, and Sam felt warning bells go off on his internal trouble meter. Time for an exit strategy.

“The library opens its doors at 7 a.m. Some of our older folks who don’t have computers like to come in and use ours to catch up on the news. The big monitors make reading easier for some of the more visually challenged patrons. As I said, the veterans convene around 8 – you really would be most welcome. And before you go,” she added, holding up a finger like it would pin them in place as she hurried back to the desk. She opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope, and brought it over to Steve, who stared at it a beat then accepted it with a smile. “Information about the mural, the WPA projects in the area, the library itself. It’s sort of a neighborhood welcome packet. There’s a lovely print of the mural – I expect you never got to see it before, isn’t that right, Captain Rogers?”

“I, uh … how did you know?”

“Steve Grant? You’ve got kind of a famous face these days, Captain, what with the news coming out of Washington. Those horrible Hydra people, your injuries. It’s not bad enough they made you fight aliens, but evil from your own time? Tsk. But thank you for solving the mystery for me. I really have always wondered who SGR was. And now I know.”

“You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you? I mean, we’re just passing through, and we’d like to keep it on the … um, what’s the phrase?” he asked, snapping his fingers.

“Down low. Yeah, no fuss, no bother. I can’t speak for Cap, but I’d like to sit in with the vets tomorrow. I’m a counselor for the VA in my regular life, and I’m always looking for new ways to connect with my people, new ways to help them take back their lives.”

“Well, I know that the group would love to have you. Both of you, if you can make it, but if not, I’m sure they’d be pleased to welcome you, Mr., ah – “

“Wilson. Call me Sam.”

“Sam,” she repeated with a smile. “Well, I promise I won’t tell a soul about you being the artist, not if you don’t want me to. But thank you both for stopping in today. You’ve certainly made my day!”

Steve chuckled self-consciously, but Sam didn’t have the same hesitance, and smiled warmly at Ms. Gimble. “Hope to see you again tomorrow, ma’am.”

“Ugh. _Ma’am_. Okay, I’ve had enough of you two. Say hi to Ben – he’s the manager at the Lodge. Y’know, if you let him claim that Captain America stayed at the Lodge, he’ll comp your room.”

“Oh, I don’t think that would be appropriate. I haven’t endorsed a product since war bonds. Fox News’d have a field day trashing me.”

“On a 24-hour news cycle, no less!” Sam agreed with a bark of laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, everybody’s got an opinion. Thanks again, Adrienne,” Steve said, lifting the envelope and smiling. He leaned across and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m really happy the mural got done, and that it’s made people happy. I got paid to design it, but knowing that it exists, and that people have enjoyed it all these years? I never dreamed of having a gift quite like that.”

She blushed and beamed at him, waving shyly as Steve and Sam made their way out of the library.

“You sure do know how to leave a trail of broken hearts behind you, don’t you?” Sam asked as they got back in the van.

“Don’t know what you mean. I have good manners – there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, no there is not. And you can’t help the fact your gee-whiz-ma’am smile makes the ladies –“

“Don’t say it, Sam. Don’t make me use my Captain America Disapproves look on you. You might not survive!”

“Hah! There’s the smartass I know and love. Now, how about some lunch?”

&&&

“So. A second mural?” Sam prompted once they were back on the road. According to the GPS, it was only a couple of miles to the Lodge, and Yelp had a number of glowing reviews for the hotel restaurant. As places to dawdle go, it had a lot to say for itself. Sam turned his playlist on, sound turned low on some mellow pop Beatles – the fun stuff, before the trip to Asia and the psychelification of the Fab Four.

“I did three designs, got paid for all three. But I only knew about one of them being installed. If it really is mine … wow.”

“If it really is yours, you should think about coming clean about being the artist, Steve. I mean, historians and fanboys’ll descend on this place like locusts, hoping to get a glimpse of the Long Lost Art of Captain America.”

“That’s the thing, Sam. It’s not the art of Captain America. I did this before we even entered the War. This is the long lost art of Steve Rogers, footnote in history.”

“There you go again, running yourself down –“

“I’m not running myself down, Sam. I’m acknowledging reality. No one cares about Steve Rogers the artist. They only want to know Captain America the Super Soldier science experiment. Trust me, no one wanted a blood sample of Steve Rogers before the serum. Hell, some nurses were afraid to take my blood, afraid I was somehow contagious.”

“Contagious? You’re joking, right?’

“Let’s just say the understanding of diseases and physical disabilities has evolved a lot – _a lot_ – since then.”

Sam was just about to ask another question when the map app announced a turn up ahead, and he focused on the road instead. Within a few minutes, the trees opened up to reveal a gravel parking lot aproning a sprawling three story building in the WPA style, with a railinged wraparound porch on the ground level, populated by inviting looking Adirondack chairs, little tables made from cross sections of trees, and rustic-looking lamps that looked like they might be as old as the building. Pathways led off into the trees, and the whole place had an air of welcome, of coming home. Sam pulled the van into the covered car park near the entrance, and as he turned off the ignition, they could hear the sound of water rushing.

“Must be close to the river. You’d think they’d cut away all the trees so you could see it from here,” Sam mused as they opened the back and pulled out necessities to carry them over the night. Sam had packed to stay in New York a few days, while Steve had packed to move there. Fortunately, both of them were used to traveling light and being ready to move out without notice, so both had packed an emergency bag in addition to the more long term luggage. “You want to do this, right? Stay overnight?”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “I have to go to New York. Doesn’t mean I gotta rush it.”

“Wow, glowing endorsement, Cap. At least we’ll get some good food in you, huh?”

“Yeah, that sounds really good,” Steve agreed, settling the strap of his duffle on his shoulder. “And yes, I’m paying,” he added with a grin.

They made their way inside, and their eyes were adjusting to the cool, dimmer interior when they both saw it, and stopped cold.

Dominating the entranceway, and stretching from floor to vaulted ceiling, a stylized waterfall cascaded down shining black rock, light glowing from behind the fall making the water appear crystalline, froth pouring from ledge to ledge as it careened toward the churning river below. Bold lines in a faintly art deco style framed the glowing water, brought to life in shades of white, blue, and silver, with flecks of green, brown, and red reflecting the world around the falls. 

“Wow. It’s just how I imagined it would be. Only … bigger. This is bigger than it was designed to be. It’s …”

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”called a genial male voice. “We believe it was designed by the same artist who designed the mural at the library. Many consider this to be the superior piece – I certainly do, but then I’m biased. Welcome to the Conway Lodge,” he finished, extending his hand warmly. “Ben Murphy, manager of the Conway Lodge.”

“Was this painted when the lodge was built?” Steve asked, his eyes still wide and his cheeks flushed. 

“Yes. All part of the WPA effort that brought jobs and new skills into the area. We have a wonderful coffee table book that was compiled by a local historian on the WPA efforts in the area – the library, this lodge, a bridge further down the main road – all products of the various programs. There’s a chapter devoted to ‘Shenandoah Crystal’ – that’s what someone dubbed it back in the ‘40s. There’s also a chapter devoted to the piece at the library – that picked up the title ‘Embracing the Nation’ along the way. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all that after your journey. Let’s get you checked in, shall we?”

“Where can I find the book?” Steve asked eagerly, turning to follow the manager from the high-ceilinged entryway to the more human-scaled lobby and reception area. Wide wooden staircases ran up both sides of lobby, no doubt to the actual guest rooms. On the left side, light filtered dreamily through a wall of frosted glass, while on the other, a bar of dark wood and gleaming brass formed an island around a group of comfortable looking chairs and low tables. A baby grand piano sat the other end of the space its polished wood glowing under the late-day light streaming in from the windows 

“We have copies available in the gift shop,” Murphy nodded to the space behind the mural; the gift shop was tucked in between the mural and the stairs. “You can also look at it at the library. The author is often there – she’s part of a group that meets nearly every day.”

“The vets?” Sam prompted.

“Yes. Dr. Chambers. She was an Army doctor in Vietnam. Very _China Beach_ , I gather. She helped organize the group originally, but it’s pretty much self-sustaining now. My Dad’s a member, too. Okay, here we are. Um, two rooms, one? Two beds, one?” he prompted from behind the desk, glancing up at Steve and Sam, his face carefully non-judgmental.

“Um, I guess one room?” Steve said hesitantly, looking at Sam. “Two beds, definitely. Or d’you want your own room? I’m paying, remember?” he added with a grin.

“Well, I know you don’t snore, or at least you didn’t when you were sleeping on my couch. Ah, what the heck – sure, one room. And yeah, two beds, please.”

“Great, I’ll just need some ID and the card you want to charge the room to …” he asked as he keyed in their particulars. Steve handed over the two cards, and Murphy took them absently, concentrating on his work until he looked down at Steve’s cards and stopped, mouth falling open. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. Take payment, I mean. Captain Rogers, it’s an honor to have you stay here, I –“ he stuttered, pushing the cards back at Steve.

Steve smiled wanly and pushed them right back. “I always pay my own way, son. If you know who I am, you know I lived through the Great Depression. Country didn’t recover because rich people took handouts. Now you ring up that charge, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I … yes, _sir_ ,” Murphy nodded furiously, fingers moving quickly over the keys as he expedited Steve’s check-in. 

When he was done, he handed over two keys, and directed them toward the stairs that would take them up to their room. “You’ll have a nice view of the waterfall. But if you liked the mural, you should really take in the view from the dining room.”

“The dining room?”

Murphy nodded toward the wall of frosted glass framed with dark wood. “Over the years, the management of the lodge has taken its artistic cue from the mural. I think you’ll like what you see.”

&&&

Steve was awed into silence. Sam wasn’t much better.

The dining room featured a series of plate glass windows that stretched two full stories of the lodge, framing a view of the water cascading down rocks, foaming in the spillways, and crashing down into the river below. Lights installed behind the falls made them glitter and glow, even in the daylight. By night, the view would no doubt take on an otherworldly magic.

“ _This_ was inspired by the mural?” Steve breathed.

“Well, the falls were there. But the decision to build the lodge here at this specific location, design the windows and the observation deck that way were all apparently inspired by the design. And over the years, lights have been added, the water wheel – the lodge draws a fair amount of its power off the falls, by the way. We keep the trees closed in on this side so the view isn’t marred by cars and such reflecting off the water. Your room has a balcony opening onto the falls as well.”

“Well, all I can say is whoever designed that mural, he was a hell of a visionary,” Sam said with only a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Because _goddamn_. He may not believe it, but Cap was hella talented. And Sam had a new target in mind – helping Steve reconnect with his inner artist.

Steve had the good grace to blush, smile to himself, and duck his head, but Murphy missed the whole show as he turned to confer with a young woman dressed in a black on black outfit with a white bowtie.

“You folks open for business in here? ‘Cos something smells incredible coming from what I think is the kitchen?” Sam asked, sniffing the delicious odors with enthusiasm. He hadn’t really been hungry, but the scents were making his stomach growl in anticipation.

The young woman smiled at him, and waved toward the dining room. “Sit wherever you like. How about you look over the menu, let me know what you’d like, and you can go get settled in your room while I put your orders in?”

“I think I’m gonna like it here!” Sam replied with a grin. “C’mon, let’s find out what’s cooking.”

&&&

After they’d put in their orders – in Steve’s case, multiple orders that left the server nearly cross-eyed with shock – they made their ways up to their room on the third floor. They let themselves in with the key – an actual brass key with a leather fob and their room number stamped in gold. Steve shouldered his duffle and stepped into the room, and then just stopped. Sam practically ran into his back, but managed a little two-step just in time to avoid breaking his nose on a super soldier wall.

“Use your signals next time, doof-ahah,” Sam complained, his voice petering off as he looked up and saw the view that had immobilized Rogers. “This is their _standard_ room?” he squeaked.

Like the restaurant beneath them, this room featured a vaulted ceiling and floor to ceiling, wall to wall windows that framed an incredible view of the falls. They stood in a luxurious common room, with a bedroom off to one side, and a massive en suite bathroom/spa to the other. 

Steve was still standing just inside the door, staring out the window, jaw hanging open.

“Is it how you imagined it?” Sam asked reverently, taking a step into the room – a suite, he noted absently – to look into the glittering rushing water, colors captured and fractured into ever-changing combinations of light and color.

“Better,” Steve breathed. “I worked off a photograph in black and white. Everything else was imagination. I couldn’t see colors anyway, because I was color blind.”

Sam turned to look at him then, brows furrowed. Color blind. Funny term. Used a lot by self-congratulating liberals these days. But maybe, just maybe, it applied this time. But to not see any color at all, and to create such lasting beauty … Sam knew the world gained something special when Steve Rogers was given the serum, but not for the first time, he wondered what it might also have lost in the process. Or rather, what Steve had convinced himself he no longer deserved.

They stood there for a long moment, just staring out into the constantly changing wonder of the falls. Sam felt something click into place inside, a small piece that found its niche, and a calm settled on him, a calm he’d been waiting to greet for a long time. He turned toward Steve, and told him, “Music. For me, it was music. Not listening, but playing.”

Steve swallowed, and turned slowly toward Sam. Sam was gratified to see that Steve treated this moment with the gravity it deserved – he felt flayed open, nerves exposed to the air by just that small admission. 

“When was the last time you played?”

“Riley’s funeral.”

&&&

“Julliard,” Sam explained, then spooned some of the delicious soup, a delicate gazpacho, nearly moaning over the flavor that burst over his tongue. 

“That’s –“

“A really good school, yeah,” Sam agreed with a grin, and broke off a piece of still warm French bread and slathered it with country butter. Hell, he was going to gain twenty pounds at dinner alone, but it was so worth the miles he was going to have to run later.

“It’s like the _best_ , Sam,” Steve protested around a mouthful of his own soup, a decadent-looking corn chowder.

“Yeah, it kinda is. Berklee is good, too, but it doesn’t have the rep of Julliard.”

“So, you went to Julliard. For how long?”

“Graduated. With honors. ‘Rents were kinda proud,” he added with a grin, remembering how his Mama had been so excited for him to follow her into the arts. Dad had been bursting, he was so proud. Even Grams, God rest her, had been pleased, pounding her cane on the floor of the theatre hall in approval when Sam had received his diploma. Dia, his older sister, had sat there with the most beatific smile Sam could remember, part proud, part pleased, mostly smug. She’d been the one to push him to pursue Julliard in the first place, instead of the music program at Columbia, where he’d’ve gotten reduced tuition thanks to Dad’s tenure in the English department. Julliard hadn’t been cheap, but he’d never lose the memories of those incredible years. And the name looked good on resumes back when he’d been playing sessions and chasing gigs.

But Steve was talking, and Sam wasn’t paying proper attention to the amazing food that was demanding his full and undivided appreciation.

“Wow. Beats Brooklyn Art Institute. I woulda loved to’ve gone to some place like RISD,” he pronounced it “risdee,” moving on to, “or Pratt, or even Columbia. But there was only so much money, and I couldn’t even scrape enough together to graduate. Loved the classes I attended, though.”

“You should think about going back,” Sam told him simply, and savored another spoonful of his soup.

“Like you’re gonna start playing again?”

“It’s not the same, Steve.”

“Like hell it’s not. You can’t tell me to embrace my inner artist when you’ve let yours fall silent.”

“I, uh – why not? I just don’t feel the music in me anymore, Steve. I mean, I love to listen to music, and boy, let me tell you – I can dance. Wouldn’t be my mother’s son if I couldn’t. But I don’t feel the music like I did before Riley … before Riley died.”

“That’s called grief, Sam. Would Riley want your music to remain silent?”

“Riley was tone deaf. He couldn’t tell if I played well or like shit. But he had surprisingly good rhythm. It was part of what made us such a great team. He had a beat inside that was just so easy to sync up to, we worked like clockwork – literally like we were part of the same machine. I swear music would write itself in my head when we fell in step like that. When he got shot down, I … the music went away. All I could hear was white noise. Silence, if I was lucky. But the music was gone.”

Steve was silent for a while, focusing on chewing his food, looking mostly at his plate, but occasionally lifting his face to look out over the falls. Finally, he set down his fork and flattened both hands on the elegant tablecloth, staring at something – or someone – that Sam couldn’t see. Then he took a long, shuddering breath, and bent down to pull up his crossover bag. He extracted a much-handled, clearly much-loved bound book, and slid it across the table to Sam.

“The white noise. It’s your soul screaming out for your other half, I think. You can’t hear anything over the void. For a long time. And then … then comes the emptiness where they should be. And you have to fill it with something.”

Sam nodded, feeling like Steve actually got it. Not everyone did. His folks, they tried, but they didn’t understand how the thing that had driven Sam for most of his life could become something so painful that Sam couldn’t even consider it anymore.

But when he opened the book, he saw page after page of beautifully rendered drawings, people from Steve’s past, faces he recognized from the Smithsonian, Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, the Commandos. Barnes. Page after page of Barnes. There was one of Natasha, even one of Hill and Fury, a caricature of Tony Stark. A little green Hulk. Even him, Sam, with his wings outspread. But mostly Barnes. Sam looked up to see the naked pain in Steve’s face, and he tried to understand what Steve was showing him.

“Just because your soul is hurting, it’s still there. It still needs to be what it’s meant to be. I’m not that guy anymore, the struggling artist who dreamed of a _Saturday Evening Post_ cover. I don’t know if the world would accept Steve Rogers walking away from Captain America to be an artist. It doesn’t matter in the end, Sam. Because I can’t help myself. I’ll always need to take what I see, in reality, in my dreams, in my heart, and commit it to paper. Once I started to let myself do that, stopped fighting it, things got a little easier. I still can’t be that guy – I don’t think I’ll ever get to be that guy again. But my soul? It doesn’t care. So I always have something with me, to doodle, to scribble down an idea. Because I can’t not.”

“These aren’t scribbles or doodles, Steve. These are … these are _art_. Man, you gotta find a balance –“

“Like you have?”

“I have a good life, Rogers,” Sam heard himself snap back, feeling a wall of defensiveness rising around him. 

“You have a silent life. You said so yourself. Maybe it’s time to listen to that white noise and hear what it’s telling you.”

“Maybe,” Sam agreed grumpily. “You trying to out-counsel me, Rogers?”

“Just telling it like it is.”

“So that’s how it is, huh?”

“Oh yeah. That’s how it is.”

“Well, in that case, lemme have a taste of that chowder before you inhale it all, huh?”

&&&

“Never had any illusions about my prospects,” Sam explained over dinner. “The music industry is just as racist, just as narrow-minded as any other American institution. Maybe more so, considering the money involved. Blues, rap, Motown – mighta broken in there. But classical? Nuh-uh.”

“I read up about some of the scandals. Payola. Drugs. Overdoses. Suicides.”

“Lotta crime swept under the rug. Lotta souls broken by the fame monster. But none of that mattered if I got to play, y’know? I’m a classically trained pianist. Started lessons when I was five, graduated in the top five percent of my class at Julliard. No one was knockin’ down my door to schedule a one-man show at Carnegie Hall. No meetings with labels eager to hear me play. But sessions? Sitting in on gigs when their keyboardist had to stay home with the baby, care for a sick relative? And yeah, deal with their own damned shit, too. Didn’t take long for me to have a name and steady work, work I enjoyed. I built up a good career and a good rep, too. New York, Boston, Philly, DC, out to Chicago, down to New Orleans. Even did some incidental piano on a couple of soundtracks.”

“Then what happened?”

“What the hell you think happened? 9/11. That’s all she wrote. Mom was worried, but Dad understood. He was worried, too, but he understood. I enlisted. Air Force like my Dad, my Granddad. Met Riley in basic. Hit it off right away. He couldn’t tell shit about music, but he understood rhythm. We actually screwed around performing a few times, me playing the piano, him taking rhythm on the drums. Eventually got into the pararescue. The pair of us. Then just me.”

“When did you stop playing?”

“Riley’s funeral. Well, the wake. I played something with lots of notes, lots of rhythm, lots of staccato. Just like he liked. And that was it,” he added, shaking his head. “Music died with him.”

“But you still like music, you still listen –“

“Yeah, I can appreciate music, definitely. Can’t think of a worse hell than to be completely without music. But that guy who felt the music flow like blood in his veins? That’s not me. I’m not that guy anymore, Steve. Just like you’re not that guy dreaming of that Saturday whatsit cover.”

“ _Saturday Evening Post_. Height of New York sophistication back in my day. Get a cover there, your career was made. My Mama trained me to aim high.”

“Whaddya think your Mama would think of where you are today, hmm?” Sam asked curiously as he sipped at his coffee.

“Dunno. She’d’a had something to say about me bein’ a science experiment, that’s for sure. But … I like to think she’d be proud of me. Standing by the principles she raised me to believe. You?”

“Me?” Sam huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. My Mama is proud of me. She’s the kind of woman who’s proud of everything any of us do, yet somehow she still inspires us each to aim higher, push harder, be the best we can be. Not to be competitive, but to be our best selves.”

“And what does she think about the music?”

“Hmmph,” Sam replied, looking into the depth of his cup. “She never said. I think … I think she’s disappointed. But she won’t say. She just talks about how good it is that I found a way to help people, y’know? Dad, too. But there used to be a baby grand piano in the parlor. Then I noticed she covered it with one of those furniture scarf things. Last time I was home, it had been moved out of the living room. I didn’t ask where it went.”

“Sounds like they went through a kind of mourning.”

“Didn’t you?”

“For my art?” Steve asked with a sigh. “Well, like I said, I can’t help myself to draw. Scribble, doodle, whatever. But my dreams have changed, I guess.”

“To what?”

“Right now? To bringing Bucky home. I got nothing past that. I just need to have him home.”

“With you.”

“Yeah.”

“And if that isn’t the right place for him?”

“Then I’ll find a new dream, I guess. But for now, that’s my dream. Art ain’t gonna get the job done.”

“No, I guess not.” Sam lifted his face and stared out the window in silence for a moment, watching the setting sun paint the waterfall in shades of red and orange, like the water was aflame. “But it’s still a helluva thing,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed wistfully. “Sure is.”

&&&

They both slept well in the suite Murphy had assigned them. After having been roommates at Sam’s place for a while, they were used to one another, and went through their evening routines as though they’d been choreographed.

Steve’s serum meant that he didn’t need as much sleep as other people. “If I don’t eat enough, I need more sleep because my body needs to conserve fuel. My metabolism works at about four times a normal person. But I eat enough, I can get by with just a few hours.”

“If this is your way of telling me you’re getting up at ass-crack o’clock to go running, have at it. I’m sleeping in. Gonna enjoy this sinfully comfy bed, and this gorgeous view.”

“Gonna get room service and eat in bed?”

“You kidding? There’s donuts and library coffee waiting for me tomorrow morning.”

“Going to that vets meeting.”

“Yeah. You should, too. Be a good chance to get a sense of what your murals mean to the regular guys. Plus, that librarian, think she’s kinda sweet on you …”

“Yuck it up, flyboy. Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

“I’m driving.”

“I’m running.”

&&&

Sam allowed himself a long, luxurious, and completely decadent stint in the shower, letting the hot water pulse over his skin, erasing the past months of stress, the rise of Hydra, the fall of SHIELD, Steve’s flirt with death, all the information that Romanov had dug up on the Winter Soldier project. Sam thought himself pretty even-keeled, but as the tension sloughed off down the drain, he had to admit that all that had happened had left its mark on him.

And Steve. Geeze, the guy might be a fossil from another time, but he was astute. He asked good questions, had good instincts. Well, he was supposed to be one of the greatest military minds in history, after all. Guess Sam shouldn’t feel too bad if Rogers dug deep and found gold.

As Sam rubbed the soft, plush towels briskly over his tingling skin, he thought about Steve and his art. Man had seen hell and lived to tell the tale. Lost everything – every fucking thing. And yet still kept that book with him, scribbling, doodling, creating art, regardless of what he called it. Maybe he didn’t have aspirations of being a world-famous artist anymore. But he’d let the art back into his life, let himself have it. And the world hadn’t come to an end.

For a fleeting moment, Sam felt the air around him tremble, the hushed-breath moment before a key is struck, before the hammer comes down on the wire, the moment before a note is born. Sam froze in anticipation of that moment, the unheard note shivering down his spine, his eyes wide and his lips parted, a hint of smile touching the corners.

And then it was gone, silenced before it was real.

And Sam finally had to admit to himself that he missed it. He missed the music flowing through his body, pouring through his fingers, his body, his soul, to take shape and mold the air into impossible, crystalline clarity, the music of the spheres, the voice of God, the universe speaking through the music in his head.

His head had been far too silent, and he suddenly had the sense that it was not the music that had died, but his ability to hear it.

He blinked, frowning. 

Was it possible?

Had the music not abandoned him?

Was it still there, waiting for him to hear?

He sucked in a breath and shook his head.

Or maybe that dessert from last night was fucking with his blood sugar.

He shook himself like a dog in the rain, and smiled ruefully. Time to eat the donuts …

&&&

Steve, little shit that he was, insisted on synchronizing their watches the night before so they could coordinate their arrivals at the library. Sam pulled into the parking lot feeling his grin growing – there’d been no sign of Steve on the road from the lodge, so he was sure he’d beaten him to the place. But after he’d parked the van and made his way into the cool, dim interior of the library, he found Steve standing there, looking up at his mural. One of his murals. Briefly, Sam wondered what happened to the third one, if it too had been painted somewhere in the country, and the location just hadn’t made its way back to him. That somewhere, some building was in possession of an original Steve Rogers design, and didn’t even know the historical significance they were sitting on.

While they were at dinner last night, Murphy had left in their room two copies of the book written about the WPA work and the murals, and Sam had actually found the story interesting. There’d been a lot of speculation over the years about who the designing artist might have been, but the fact was they didn’t, just as no one knew the name of the man behind Captain America until after Steve had come out of the ice, and the Chitauri had rained down from the sky. It was only in the aftermath that the public had found out that the man who’d marshalled the forces of New York – first responders and civilians alike – was the real deal, the 1940s super soldier and Brooklyn native, Steve Rogers. The Smithsonian exhibit mentioned Steve’s full name, but he doubted anyone outside groupies and history buffs registered it after hearing Gary Sinise’s sonorous voice say it out loud. 

So no one had ever guessed that the mystery artist was actually a national hero. Not until Steve had said his middle name to Ms. Gimble, and she’d put the pieces together.

He hadn’t known what to expect, and he’d readied himself for a shitshow. He hadn’t mentioned his concerns to Steve, but he’d expected a media circus here at the library, paparazzi and journalists swarming the place in search of a soundbite about Cap’s foray into art.

Instead, he found a lonely looking soul dressed in khakis, a stressed-looking white t-shirt, and a worn and much-loved leather jacket standing in front of the mural, studying it with a wistful expression.

Steve Rogers, the man, had been an artist.

Captain America, the hero, didn’t have time for art.

As Sam watched the light from outside eclipse Steve’s face as the door drifted shut behind him, Sam made a promise to himself to help Steve find a way to find a balance between the man and the hero. First thing he was doing after he had a visit with his folks was check out the VA in New York, see if he could find someone he’d trust Steve with to help him come home. And look into art programs at the VA, maybe even see what he could do to set one up that Steve could run.

Sam must have made some kind of noise, because Steve chose that moment to look up, and the melancholy fell away to a broad smile.

“Gettin’ slow in your old age, Sam,” Steve greeted with a chuckle.

“Some of us prefer to greet the day when the sun is actually, you know, _up_.”

“You snooze, you lose,” Steve teased, falling in step as they made their way to the stairway that would take them down to the meeting rooms, and the vets.

“Don’t tell me you ate all the donuts already,” Sam complained.

“Nah, I was waiting for you. But that coffee sure smells good,” he noted, lifting his nose to scent the air.

“Morning, gentleman,” greeted a gravelly-sounding female voice as they came through the double doors into the meeting space. Time hadn’t been as kind here as it was up in the library. The linoleum was old and cracked, the walls an institutional green that had darkened to an almost-avocado over the years. Whatever ceiling had been built in the room had long ago been replaced with acoustic tile like he’d seen in various sound booths over the years. At least the air circulated with a big ceiling fan that looked like his Grandpa might’ve installed it. “You’re welcome to join us! Help yourself to coffee and donuts, but only after you pay the price of admission.”

That pulled them both up short. They both paused, looking at the elderly woman who owned that extraordinary voice. Her hair was gray and cut short, and she had the lined, brown face of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. The smock-y top and the gardener’s gloves shoved in her pocket were a dead giveaway. She was heavyset and looked comfortable in her own skin, exuding authority and confidence. She stood there with her head cocked to the side waiting for a response from them. “And that would be?” Steve prompted.

“Tell us one thing you do that has nothing to do with your service, of course,” another old duffer replied, shoving a ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles at Steve. He elbowed him and pointed to a poster on the wall, showing the knitting instructions. “You know how to throw stitches on the needle, right?” he asked genially, nodding toward the yarn in Steve’s hands.

“Never forget,” Steve answered with a grin.

“How ‘bout you, young man? Know your way around a set of needles?”

“Who knits in Afghanistan? Nope, sorry, not in my repertoire.”

“We don’t talk about where we’ve served or anything related to that,” the woman informed them kindly. “At least not when we welcome newcomers amongst us. We’re more interested in what you do, now, either as a career, or for fun. I’m Emma Chambers. I garden. So, what do we call you, and what do you do when you’re not saving the world, hmm?”

Sam felt a moment of panic that they’d figured out who Steve was, but he just smiled and answered, “Steve. Um, I don’t really have any hobbies per se.”

“There must be something you do to relax, to unwind from the day,” she prompted gently.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck nervously, lifting one shoulder as though he was going to shrug, then thought better of the move. “Well, I like to read. And sometimes … sometimes I draw.”

The room broke into excited babble as several of the folks present got up and started urging Steve toward the chalkboard at the end of the room, begging him to show off his artistic style. He let himself be buoyed by their enthusiasm, and handed off his yarn and needles to the guy who’d given them to him, and picked up a piece of chalk. He glanced at Sam, and drew his eyebrows up helplessly, shrugging slightly.

But folks in the room were shouting out suggestions, asking for all manner of things for Steve to draw, and finally someone called out, “Draw Grumpy Cat!”

“I got that reference!” Steve called back, pointing to the requester. He turned to the chalkboard and very quickly sketched out a remarkable rendition of the famous feline. The folks in the room kept shouting out prompts, and Steve quickly got into the spirit of the exercise, rapidly filling the black surface with chalky characters and squiggly doodles.

With all the attention focused on Steve, Grumpy and Co., Sam started making his way sideways across the room toward the coffee urn when the woman in charge chastised, “Ah, ah, ah! No coffee until you share with the class.”

Sam shoved one hand into his pants pocket, and bounced his fingers off his chest and answered, “Sam. I’m a counselor. For the VA in DC.” Then he started moving toward the coffee.

“Not so fast!” she announced, and he could hear the command in her voice. It brought him up short, nearly sent him into a picture perfect salute, but he caught himself before he lifted his hand, before he called out, “Yes, sir, no, sir!”

“I said what do you do when you’re not saving the world. Now, I’m no official counselor, but I know that’s a world-saving job. What do you do? For _fun_?” she asked probingly, tilting her face to catch him securely in her gaze.

“I, uh –“

“He plays the piano!” Steve crowed from where he’d added a funny looking flying guy circling over Grumpy Cat’s head.

Sam simultaneously felt his stomach drop at the same time his heart rate spiked in anticipation.

This wasn’t Carnegie Hall.

And he hadn’t played in more years than he cared to count.

But, he looked over at Steve, who grinned foolishly and looked younger than Sam had thought possible as he drew more and more ridiculous things as the men and women shouted out ideas. Maybe …

He heard the sudden crash of keys and a discordant squeal of piano wire, and turned around to see a couple of the men wheeling in an old upright, guiding it to the front of the room. Someone else brought in the bench, and arranged it with care before stepping back and waving to the ensemble.

“That thing in tune?” he asked with a chuckle, as he gave in to its siren call, drawn to the ivory, the taut piano wire, the possibility it promised. He thought he didn’t know if he remembered how to play, but he knew that for the lie it was. He felt the swell of the music in his chest, zinging through his blood, as he sat down at the keyboard, feeling the hush that dropped down over the crowd. Then he grinned to himself, looked over his shoulder at Steve, and winked.

The room filled with the tune of _The Star-Spangled Man with a Plan_ , and Steve groaned while everyone else clapped and started to sing along.

And the music sang through him, unfettered for the first time since Riley fell.

&&&

The vets group made up for actual musical talent with sheer determination and enthusiasm. It wasn’t a jam session with the greats, but it was pretty frigging good. Sam could feel the music flow through him, and the energy double-back on him, filling him with a lightness he hadn’t realized he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Since 9/11. Maybe before. 

So he focused on some old-timey tunes, some stuff he liked from the ‘80s – because, really, who can resist singing along to ABBA? A bit of Duran Duran, some Earth Wind and Fire, and a touch of Sly. A slice of Aretha, a smattering of Springsteen. He would never forget the sight of Steve Rogers trying to get down with Emma Chambers, who, despite her years and her bulk, could probably give Sam a run for his money in the dancing department. He suddenly had an image of her with big hair, banana clip, and bold leggings dancing to the music when it was new. When she hip-checked Steve for the first time, it caught him off-guard and he went sprawling, but since then, he’d given as good as he got, and the laughter rang out sweet and true.

When he segued into Jon Bon Jovi’s _Wanted, Dead or Alive_ , Steve surprised him by grabbing a couple of the others to pull them into a rough semi-circle where they started to harmonize to the tune. Four of them total … Cap grinned from his barbershop quartet as their voices blended in more or less perfect harmony. Cap had a nice tenor voice that soared at the right points, eyes screwed shut under bunched brows as he reached for the notes. He had performance quality.

Sam was half-tempted to stop playing just so he could watch Cap’s face – the guy was a natural. But then again, he really had been a performer, headlining his own show across the US and part of Europe before he learned Barnes was missing.

Barnes.

The real world.

It was still out there, waiting for them.

Sam let his fingers play out a quieting denouement to the music, finally lifting his hands away from the keys as Cap and the others held a long chord on “live” until they too died away.

The room erupted in applause, backslapping, and general hooting and hollering. Sam found himself buffeted by well-wishers, a knowing smile and nod from Dr. Chambers, and a glowing grin from Steve.

“Didn’t know you could sing like _that_ , Rogers.”

“Yeah, well, after, y’know, the hearing got fixed. Perfect pitch now. It’s nice to put it to good use now and again, Sam.”

“Think you’ve about earned that coffee and some fresh donuts, Sam who plays piano. You, too, Steve who draws. Thank you both for your service, and thank you for the art and music. Speaking of art, you don’t happen to know anything about the mural upstairs, do you?”

&&&

Dr. Emma Chambers, physician, avid gardener, survivor of the Vietnam War, and amateur historian and sleuth, had started wondering anew about the provenance of the area’s WPA murals shortly after the identity and back story of Captain America was released to the public. As a physician and a soldier, she’d been fascinated by the idea of creating a super soldier like Captain America – not overly aggressive or fueled by rage, but competent, compassionate, kind. What made the legend of Captain America resonate with his contemporaries and the generations that followed wasn’t his superior might, but the way in which he used it. The very qualities that Abraham Erskine had looked for when he’d chosen Steve, of all the possible applicants.

She had begun to wonder if the Steven Grant Rogers who became Captain America might not be the SGR of their murals. Not because of some great leap of intuition, but because the stories at the time the murals were done stated that the artist had been a young man from Brooklyn, and he’d been too ill to travel to West Virginia at the time to oversee the painting. His absence had opened up opportunities for local residents, and folks had wanted to send the poor boy get well notes, but the WPA wouldn’t release his information.

She explained this over a fine afternoon meal at the lodge as Steve and Sam poked and picked at their meals, worry lining both their faces, if for different reasons.

Sam was worried about Steve, about whether or not he was ready for that private part of his life to become public. Because he believed that was the inevitable result of more and more people knowing his secret.

Steve was worried because he felt like one more thing in his life was being pulled out of his control. He’d had such fun doodling for the vets, and singing along to Sam’s piano playing. It had started out as such a good day, and now …

“All right, what’s with you two? You both look like you’re expecting KP duty and then latrine cleanout by nightfall. Come on, give it up,” she commanded.

“I’m …” Steve started, then frowned and shook his head.

“I’m right, aren’t I. That Steven Grant Rogers is SGR,” she said softly, pitching her voice so it wouldn’t carry. Steve inclined his head. “And you don’t want people to know this because …?” she prompted him.

“It’s not who I am anymore –“

“Nonsense! Why, because you were a soldier? Did being a soldier change your core values?”

“Well, no, I still don’t like bullies –“

“Exactly.”

“But I have killed people,” Steve countered. “In battle. On missions. Not always sanctioned,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair. The deaths at the Triskelion, the STRIKE team and the other Hydra operatives killed as Steve, Natasha, as they all fought for their lives as Hydra scrabbled its way out of the decaying corpse of SHIELD … these deaths weighed heavily on Steve’s conscience, Sam knew. They’d talked about it. Steve questioned whether they were clean kills or not, in the line of duty, or just selfishly trying to stay alive.

“When it’s kill or be killed, Captain, when there is a clear enemy, a credible threat, the conscience can rest easier than you’re allowing it, I think. I’m a physician. I took the Hippocratic Oath. I have more than one kill attached to my service record. I’ll never forget their faces, but I know if I hadn’t made the choices I did, I would be dead, and my patients, my charges would have been, too. I understand the dilemma. The thing is, you gotta make choices that don’t end up killing _you_.”

“I’ve said stuff like that,” Sam said, and it sounded lame to his ears. 

The old doc pursed her lips and quirked an eyebrow at him, nodding faintly. Then she turned back to Steve, directed the full force of her not inconsiderable personality at him. “Do you know how empowering it would be, for soldiers, for survivors, to see someone like you, a decorated soldier, someone who’s been through as much as you have, embrace his art, his civilian side? I’m not talking about the science experiment, Captain. I’m talking your service record. Because you can bet that’s all any of them are looking at. Not the civilians, but the men and women who’ve served. Like the folks in the meeting today. Did you see how excited they became, how collaborative? You inspired that, you’re your doodles and your cartoons and your _art_.” Steve looked up at her, the longing, the hope naked and painful on his face. Try as Sam had, he couldn’t get through to Steve the way a complete stranger could in this case, especially one with the gravitas that Dr. Chambers naturally possessed. 

“Captain, you’re them as much as they are you. And you can give each other hope.” She settled back in her seat and regarded him for a long moment. “Undiagnosed PTSD. The pair of you,” she pronounced.

“Now, wait a minute, I’m not –“ Sam protested, shifting forward in his seat.

She cut him off mercilessly. “You think you’re not. You don’t come out of any military conflict unmarked in some way. You didn’t say what you did today, your friend here did. You hesitated. Let me guess – you don’t think you’re worthy of your art, either, am I right?” 

Sam stared at her, shocked into silence.

“Why?”

“I, uh –“

“You lost somebody, didn’t you? Couldn’t be the shield for everyone, and you think it’s your fault –“

“Not my fault. The dumbass who fired the RPG. We’d got the hostages, we thought we had the hostiles neutralized, we were getting out of there. And some dumb fuck of an unfriendly shot a fucking rocket. I was too far away. I couldn’t get to him in time –“

“And what? Letting the music go silent is penance? Punishment? An offering to the gods? What you did today, sharing that gift – you made the day better for everyone in that room, myself included. Hell, they could hear us up in the library proper, and no one complained – pretty sure you brought a bit of light into the days of those folks, too.“ She leveled him with an uncompromising gaze. “You wanna help people, Sergeant Wilson? You have a gift – you should use it, not lock it away in silence.”

“I didn’t tell you my rank.”

“I watch the news. You hang out with this one, you’re gonna get noticed. Plus, I got friends at the VA. Didn’t take much to find out about a very talented young black counselor in the DC office while you boys were powdering your noses. Your bosses think very highly of you. Your groups do, too. Think how much more you could do with them if you brought your music to bear in helping them heal.”

“I was thinking Steve here might be able to work with vets in New York, use his art to run some art therapy sessions,” Sam admitted, and Steve leaned forward to look at him incredulously.

“You were, huh? When were you plannin’ to mention that, huh?”

“After we got you settled in New York. I’ve got some friends looking into offices, available programs. Thought it would be good for you.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” she announced acerbically, waving her hand at the air between them. Steve and Sam glanced at each other, frowning and looking like children who’d been caught with their hands in that famous cookie jar. “You can’t fix a problem if you don’t acknowledge there is a problem. Well, there’s your problem. Now you can fix it.”

&&&

The rest of the meal, and quite a bit after, Dr. Chambers shared her research on the impact of the WPA projects and especially the murals on the local community. Steve listened raptly as she recounted stories about how the Depression had affected Conway and the surrounding county. Unlike some parts of West Virginia that relied on the coal industry for their economies, Conway was primarily agrarian at the time, and continued decent weather had kept the farms working steadily. The markets for their products were shrunken by the fiscal mess, and the community reverted to a barter economy for a while. The local farms formed a consortium to truck produce up to Harpers Ferry, where ventilated railroad cars would carry it away to faraway cities. But the fact was, at the time, there was little enough money to be had in selling outside the area, so barter actually made better sense for all concerned.

It was into that relatively closed economic system the WPA came, with their plans for bridges over the Shenandoah, the library, the lodge, and the two murals. The lodge had actually been intended to be part of a park, but before it was even completed, the Park Service elected to focus on the more historically significant Harpers Ferry instead. The lodge had been sold to private owners, and had been held by the same family now for several generations.

“The murals were unusual in that they weren’t painted by a single artist, and moved here. Having the design provided, with local artisans getting the work to paint it created a unique opportunity to Conway. Many credit it with the birth of the arts movement here. Folks had a chance to learn some art craft, and many found they enjoyed it. And they were good at it. Conway still boasts a thriving and diverse arts community – all hailing back to the murals.”

Sam nudged Steve on the elbow, and said, “Hear that? You’re responsible for generations of artists. How can you think you’re not one of them, huh?”

“Wow. It never occurred to me that the design could impact people’s lives that way,” Steve breathed, clearly touched and entranced by the idea.

“Honestly, looking back at it, it was a stroke of genius to provide a design that could be implemented by a team of local artists. It created more jobs in the program than simply a mural painted by one artist, and then mounted by laborers. I’m surprised more projects weren’t done this way.”

“How come you were special, Steve?” Sam asked curiously.

“I dunno. The administrator liked the designs, but then I got sick – I couldn’t travel. I could barely get out of bed without help. So he said to make ‘em big enough that somebody else could paint ‘em. I did three – you’ve got two here. I don’t know if the third one was ever painted, or where it is.”

“Well, these two are specific to this area. What was the other design?”

“A view of a car on a highway, trees, fields, a little town in the distance. No place specific, just a view on the road. It could be anywhere. Or nowhere at all.”

“And you worked your initials into the design of that as well?”

“In the spokes of the wheels of the car,” Steve nodded.

“Well, then, I do love a mystery. I’ll see what I can track down. You know, there are web sites that collect information about the New Deal and the various programs Roosevelt initiated. Including some fairly comprehensive details about the arts projects. You could control the narrative about your authorship of the murals.”

“Doesn’t that take away from the folks who painted them?”

“To find out their family members implemented the vision of the man who would become Captain America? I think they could live with that.”

“I’ll think about it.”

&&&

They’d already dallied past check-out time, and Steve admitted he wasn’t in a hurry to get to New York City. “I kinda figured,” Sam observed wryly. So they opted to stick around another night, enjoy more of the excellent food at the lodge, and check out the town of Conway.

It wasn’t very large, but it was picaresque. Many of the buildings dated back to before the Civil War, when West Virginia was still a part of Virginia. There were lots of plinths featuring stories from the town’s days before and after the creation of West Virginia – which essentially seceded from Virginia for seceding from the United States. Conway had a proud tradition of equality even as the nation split itself apart over slavery. Steve told Sam he was glad his artwork ended up in a place like this, where ex-slaves had been treated with respect, and their children welcomed into the local schools. Like the vets group, the town itself was made up of many ethnicities living in apparent balance and harmony. There were sadly many places in the United States where Steve and Sam might garner negative attention simply walking together down the street, but here in the eastern edge of West Virginia, they met only friendly smiles, a touch of curiosity reserved for out of town tourists, and nothing more.

The tourist gig ate up a few hours, and came to an end when Steve announced that he was getting hungry again.

“Geeze, Rogers. What would you have been able to barter if you’d lived here during the Depression?”

“I guess pretty much what I bartered in Brooklyn. I painted signs for the grocer, and sometimes helped out with stocking shelves. I drew designs and labels on the bags at the bakery. I had nice handwriting, so the butcher would have me come in for an hour or two a day and write out labels on butcher paper so they could just grab the right sheet and keep going. Barter’s a good way to go when the economy is in the toilet, Sam. In a way, it helps people find their worth more than using money does, y’know?”

“Hmm. Y’know, you really should think about writing all this down. You have a unique view of the last century. But you also tell the stories well. Think on it – you could have a whole new career ahead of you, Cap.”

“That’s assuming I could ever walk away from the one I have …”

“Gotta find a balance. You’re not the shield. It doesn’t own you.”

“Hmm,” Steve replied with a wistful smile. But he didn’t correct Sam. That time.

&&&

When they got back to the lodge, Steve asked Sam if he could dig some stuff out of the van to take back to their room. Sam just shrugged and tossed him the keys as he headed toward the entrance. “I’m gonna get a start in on ordering you don’t empty the friggin’ kitchen, Steve.”

Steve just flipped him the bird and opened the doors to the van so he could hunt up whatever it was he was looking for. Sam headed for the source of the heavenly smells that greeted him as he opened the door to the lodge. He was actually going to miss this place. And he was definitely gonna need to get some serious running in once they reached New York.

&&&

After the meal, Sam leaned back in his seat and let out a satisfied sigh. Steve, bless him, was still eating, but there were more empty plates on the table now than filled ones. Sam let himself drift for a while, just enjoying the evening, the play of light on the falls, the soft, moisture-laden breeze skimming across it, the ambience, and the warmly sated sensation of having finished an incredible meal. Spending an evening with a good friend in the here and now.

“Do you really think I could do some good sharing my art with vets?” Steve asked quietly.

“I think anything that can help someone get out of their head and away from their demons is a good thing. Inspiring others to embrace their creativity, that positive energy? Damn straight. I think you could do a lot of good – a lot. Not just for them, but for you, too.”

“Yeah, maybe. And what about you? Music? Couldn’t that be a useful therapy, too?”

“And not just for them, but me, too? Y’know, I could kick myself for not seeing it sooner. You saw how they reacted when I played. It was a group thing, a belonging thing. That’s what a lot of my folks need, something to help them feel like they belong, that they exist in the here and now. I’ve been so caught up in my own shit, I didn’t realize it. I thought the music abandoned me, punished me for not saving Riley. For the things I did, the things I saw. And today … today I realized it’s been there all along, I just didn’t let myself hear it.”

“And now?”

“Think they’ll let me use the piano out front?”

&&&

Murphy was still on duty, and he was thrilled that someone wanted to play the piano. He assured them it was always kept in tune, and in the busier seasons – late spring, summer, and fall – they normally had a pianist playing in the lobby. There were a few other guests in the lodge, but not as many as he anticipated come summer into fall.

“The leaf peepers come out in force,” he explained with a grin. “And we’re a popular honeymoon destination. The falls are a great attraction for honeymooners who don’t want the commercialism of Niagara.”

“I’ll bet they are,” Sam chuckled to himself as he crossed the lobby to take his seat on the piano bench. It was comfortable, just padded enough without being too soft. He could get a good rhythm going without pitching himself out of his seat if he got too enthusiastic. He and Steve might be friends, but the idea of making an ass of himself in front of Captain America still did not appeal.

Steve stepped up to the piano, crossed his arms and leaned on the lid. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, Sam. If you’re not ready –“

“Funny thing is, I think I am. See, I’d been composing a piece for Riley’s birthday. Like I told you, he was tone deaf, but he got rhythm, he understood it, could wail away on the drums given half a chance. He liked music with beats, staccato, counterpoint, allegro. I never got the chance to play it for him, and I never finished it. It just ends, like he … it just ends. But today, I think I finally heard the final movement. I think I can finally play the whole thing, and I’ll be able to share it with his folks. I think they’d like that. I think he would have liked that.”

“And now?”

“And now, have a seat, Captain Rogers. You’re about to hear the world premiere of … _American Phoenix_. For Riley.”

For a moment, Sam let his hands hover over the keys, moving back and forth slowly to get a feel for the instrument before he laid hands on it. Then, he took a deep breath, glanced over the Steve, and smiled, nodding.

It was time.

He hoped Riley was listening, because he’d finally finished the piece, finally had the last movement ringing in his mind. The song was ready to be heard.

And he was ready to play.

The melody started off softly, a simple beat that could be matched to a metronome. A walking rhythm, steady and even. It gradually shifted to a more military pattern, overlaid with the first. The two blended into a rapid fire staccato, notes spiraling higher and higher, faster and faster, with a thudding chord punctuating the frantic notes, like the sound of Riley’s wings when he reached for higher air. He was completely in the zone now, the notes pouring out of him, his fingers moving with speed and precision as Riley’s song became real, not just something in his head. Right up until he reached the moment where the music had stopped, the moment that Riley had died, suspended over the hostile compound. The note rang out, held, and echoed, like the sound of that explosion that left Riley dead in the air, no time to even cry out before he was gone. And this is where the song had ended for too many years. 

But he felt his fingers move across the keyboard, teasing out the notes that had been playing in his head. Instead of following Riley’s body down like he’d always thought he needed to write it, the notes raced ever upward, following the path of Riley’s soul, until they finally ended in a simple sequence of individual notes, a benediction. And a goodbye.

He let the last note shiver on the air, full of potential and promise. Pain and remembrance. 

And then there was silence. And a lightness, a sense of completion and rightness that filled Sam from within. He lifted his head, smiling, and found Steve sitting there watching him, tears running down his face. When their eyes met, Steve began to clap, hesitantly at first, then with wild enthusiasm. Then he heard the others – Murphy at the desk, the other restaurant patrons, that couple who’d just come in the door, the bartender, the servers, even the folks from the kitchen.

Sam had just given his first impromptu concert, and it was a hit. He couldn’t have controlled the grin that spread across his face if he’d wanted to.

* * *

* * *

&&&

The next morning found them back at the library, with Steve leading an art challenge using supplies cadged from the library’s children’s activity section, and Sam playing simple melodies on the old upright as accompaniment. Emma Chambers was participating in the art challenge right along with the others, but she lifted her head a few times to grin approvingly at Sam and Steve. They grinned right back.

After, they sat around with coffee and pastries, and Steve allowed himself to take questions from the members of the group. He was pleasantly surprised that most of them were about his WWII service, and not the serum or Iron Man. In that regard, they were very much like Sam’s group when he’d sat in with them a couple of times.

Finally, he did admit to the group that he was the SGR of the murals, and then he agreed to autograph everyone’s art projects if they wanted, and to do selfies with anyone who wanted them. The best picture, though, was the group shot that Emma insisted on, where she set up the phone on her camera to take a delayed shot so she could scurry over and join the crowd. 

Steve gave Emma his e-mail address so she could forward the photos, especially the group shot. And if she found out anything about the third mural.

“If it exists, I’ll track it down, Steve. And I promise you I’ll let you know as soon as I find it.”

They shook hands, and then he saluted her, a superior officer since she’d reached Colonel status before retiring. Sam sketched an airy, non-regulation salute at the whole room, and they bid their farewells. 

It was noon by the time they got back up to the library proper, and Steve was pleased to see Ms. Gimble on duty but free for the moment. He walked over and asked her to join him at the mural. 

“I’d like you to take my picture with it,” he told her, and while she fumbled with her camera and Sam stood there with Steve’s and his own, Steve dug a couple of large sheets of Bristol board from his satchel, flipped through them quickly, then arranged them so he could hold the first of them up.

The first was a replica of the SGR signature in the train trestle, and Steve stood so the arrow attached to his drawing pointed toward the design in the mural. Below the sketch on his board was written, “= Steven Grant Rogers.” He grinned broadly as he pointed his finger to his name.

“Hold on, let me get one with my camera, too,” Sam said, as Adrienne clicked rapidly.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” she gushed. “Did you tell Emma?”

“She figured it out, too,” Steve explained mildly. He checked in with them both that they were ready, and then brought another board out that said, “That’s me!” As they started taking more pictures, he added, “But she also convinced me it would be a good idea to own my art. To share it so that other vets might see it as something positive.” He held up his finger then, and shuffled the cards one more time. This time, his placard had two doodles on it, one of a small blond man and the other of Captain America. The slogan on this card said, “Free your art!”

Both Adrienne and Sam laughed at that, and Steve joined in. Then he tucked the placards under his arm and came over to join them, motioning for each to show him the pictures. “They look good.” He looked directly at Adrienne and said, “So you have my permission to post the pictures on social media, add them to brochures about the library. Give me an e-mail address I can use for the library, and I’ll send you that in writing. Just make sure you tag me, and send me copies,” he added with a grin.

She nodded dumbly, staring at him with her mouth hanging slightly open. When she didn’t reply, Sam nudged her gently. “E-mail address?”

“Oh, oh, sorry! Yes!” she exclaimed, then rattled off her e-mail address in care of the library.

Steve smiled and then bent down to brush his lips softly across her cheek, whispering, “Thank you, Adrienne Gimble, librarian. For helping to give me back my art.”

&&&

At the lodge, Steve did a similar display with the falls mural, just with bigger gestures since the art was so much larger. He shook Murphy’s hand and made the same offer, which Murphy accepted with both solemnity and glee. Steve asked him about the owners of the lodge, and Murphy blushingly admitted that was him. He was owner of the lodge along with his parents, a brother who was currently on his honeymoon, and a sister who was on vacation during this, their slowest time of the year. His great-great-grandfather had been the one to buy the property off the Parks Service when they decided not to follow through with a park in Conway.

“Been in the family ever since. Y’know, you made quite an impression on my folks. They’re both in the vets group. I told them about you playing, Sergeant Wilson, and they couldn’t stop talking about you, or Captain Rogers and his art. It meant so much to them that you shared that with the group. And now this? Y’gotta know that you’ve got a home here any time you want it. Both of you. What you’ve done for this community – now and in the past – there’s no way to say thank you for it all.”

“Son, you just did,” Steve said simply, and he held out his hand for Murphy to shake.

&&&

“Well, geeze, Cap! That was like the most perfect Hollywood ending,” Sam commented, grinning, as they slung their overnight bags into the back of the van. “Had me all weepy and shit.”

“Shut up,” Steve complained back, chuckling. 

They each slid into their seats, clicking their seatbelts firmly in place. Sam put the keys in the ignition first but then settled back in his seat and sat in silence for a moment. “Y’know, you’re a complicated fellow,” he said, turning toward Steve.

“I’m a pretty simple kinda guy, Sam,” Steve countered.

“Oh, yeah, in many ways you are. But you … you live in time, y’know? There’s a you before, before the serum, before the war, just before. And there’s a you now. And somehow you keep meeting up with your past self in the most bizarre ways. It’s … it’s complicated, you know?”

“Well, when you put it that way … but yeah. It gets weird sometimes. Things how I remember them, things how they are now, and I’m somehow in both times at the same time. In my head, in my body. But it’s kind of amazing to find that something I did in my past – before Captain America – had helped people in the years in between, and into today.”

“And into tomorrow, I think. That art … it’s a gift that’ll keep on giving.”

“Like your music?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sam retorted, chuckling as he started the van and put it in gear.

Steve pulled out his phone, fiddled a moment, and then pressed play. Sam’s tribute to Riley played back to him, and as Sam heard the notes play, he had to smile. “Maybe,” he allowed. His smile spread as he listened, felt himself tense at that moment of Riley’s impact, and then felt the tension melt away in the next notes. Calm settled around him, “Yeah, maybe.”

&&&

They’d passed through York and Pennsylvania Dutch country, taken a tour of the grunge era, hair bands, boy bands, and metal, the Spice Girls and Joan Jett, and were getting closer to the Philadelphia suburbs when Steve’s phone started to ring.

“ _Highway to Hell_. Gotta be Tony,” Steve said simply, pulling out his phone and frowning at, thumb hovering over the decline button.

“You recognized AC/DC. I’m so proud,” Sam told him honestly. “Young Padewan’s musical education is almost complete – for now.”

“Yeah, I got that reference. I’m not wearing a braid.” The phone rang again, the same bars of the song screeching out at him.

“Think you’d better answer that,” Sam suggested. Steve nodded, and thumbed the phone toward answer, then put it on speakerphone.

“Steve-o, love of dear old Dad’s life, wet dream to millions! Need you here in NYC ASAP.”

“We’re on our way, Tony,” Steve replied warily.

“No, we need you here _now_.”

“Tony, we’re on our way. We’re in Pennsylvania –“

“Got your coordinates. Romanoff will be there in a tick. I’ll see you –“

“Tony! What’s the emergency?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you? I forgot to tell you. I do that, I get so excited I forget the stuff that’s important to other people. Not me, them. We’ve got him, Cap. We’ve got Barnes. And we need you here now to help … we’ve got a situation, and we need you, okay?”

“Wait, is Bucky okay –“

“Romanoff’s ETA is fifteen minutes. She’s touching down in a parking lot about three miles from your location in … Lansdale? Who comes up with these names?”

“Give me the address, Tony. We’ll be there.”

Tony rattled off the address of a shopping center, and Sam plugged it into his GPS. “Lowe’s, here we come.” Tony had already signed off, leaving Steve in a state of increasing agitation.

The QuinJet was standing in the far end of the shopping center parking lot, the loading ramp down, and a curious crowd just starting to form. Natasha was hanging off one of the struts, smirking as Sam drove carefully through the crowd. She waved them onto the ramp, and Sam drove directly into the belly of the QuinJet.

“Hiya, Sam,” she greeted with a coquettish smile.

“Hiya, Sam,” mocked an older sandy-haired guy with a leather outfit and a quiver of arrows on his back. “Figured you wouldn’t want to leave your car in East Buttville, PA,” he added with a quirky smile.

Steve snorted as Sam shut off the ignition, and they both got out of the van. “So thoughtful, Clint. When’d you get back?”

“Wasn’t easy since you shot hell out of my ride. Not so easy getting back in the country when all my credentials went to shit along with SHIELD. But hey, you’re looking not dead, Cap. Nice to see you up and around,” Clint greeted. “And you must be Sam. Nat’s mentioned you,” Clint added, thrusting his hand out to Sam, who took it dubiously.

“All good things, I promise,” Natasha clarified cheekily as the ramp rose and slid into place. She waggled her fingers at the rubberneckers in the parking lot as the gap closed and sealed. “Civilians,” she scoffed.

Steve got out of the van and went over to Natasha immediately. “Bucky?”

“Is safe. Alive. He’s in Stark’s medical center. It’ll make more sense when you see him, Steve. So you and Wilson strap in, and we’ll get you there right away, okay? Won’t even have time for an inflight movie.”

“But you can have popcorn. I made some. Wanted to see if altitude made a difference in kernel size,” Clint added from the railing at the top of the stairs.

“Did it?” Sam asked.

“Nah. But it tastes good. C’mon, Cap, let’s get you settled. You, too, Sammy.”

Sam mouthed the name, “Sammy?” at Steve, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head, as they followed Natasha and Clint through to the passenger section of the QuinJet. There, they dropped into comfortable seats, sitting across from each with a little table in between. Natasha tossed them both each a bottle of water and announced that was the limit of inflight service they could look forward to, and if they wanted anything else, they could serve their own damned selves. Steve barked out a laugh, and Sam couldn’t help but join in.

“I’m totally falling in love with her, you know. You’re gonna have to put in a good word for me.”

“I dunno, it sounds like she’s been talking about you to Clint, but damned if I know what that means,” Steve replied, glancing over his shoulder to where Clint had slid into the cockpit and was already guiding the Quinjet back into the air. Natasha had taken the copilot seat, and was casually leaning back in her seat, chatting quietly with Clint as she tossed kernels of popcorn that he tried to catch with his mouth.

Sam and Steve exchanges glances and then each broke into a mirroring grin, snickers escaping their efforts to contain their mirth. “See what I mean?” Steve chuckled softly.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed with a grin. “Well, guess we’ll have to finish your musical education later, huh?” Sam added softly to Steve.

“Sorry about this Sam. Tony said Bucky needs me.”

Sam looked at Steve long and hard, and he nodded. “Yeah, I get that. But don't think this thing with Barnes is gonna get you out of dinner with my family, Rogers. My Mama'll expect you for Sunday dinner promptly at four. That’s four days from now.”

Steve grinned at Sam, erasing for a moment the tightness around his eyes that was surely worry over Barnes. “Wouldn't dream of missing out on _that_ , Sam. Y’know, unless Bucky _really_ needs me, I’m sure gonna try to make it –“

“It’s good to be needed, Steve. It’s also good to have friends. Remember that.”

Steve looked at Sam in silence for a long moment before a small, genuine smile lit up his face. He reached across the small table and grabbed both of Sam’s hands, squeezing a lot more gently than Sam suddenly feared. “How can I forget when I’ve got such good ones, Sam? Thank you for the past couple of days, for being such a great friend. For indulging me.”

Sam squeezed back. In his mind’s ear, music formed, a new theme that wrote itself in his head with the faint rhythm of the QuinJet’s engines forming the counterpoint, a soundtrack to the weirdness that was now his life. Music, alive and unleashed and _there_ , the way it should be. The way it always had been, but he’d just not allowed himself to hear.

Sam smiled. “Steve, I can honestly say I wouldn’t have missed this trip for the world. Now, c’mon, let’s get some of that popcorn before Barton eats it all.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> Conway, WV does not exist. At least, I could find no mention of a Conway, WV. But it is true that parts of West Virginia were more Union than Confederate going into the Civil War, and some areas reputedly embraced real equality more than most northern states. It's a place of my own devising, and I've decided it was a good place.
> 
> The art projects of the WPA were normally an artist got the commission, and was responsible for delivering the art. I loved the idea of the art being a communal project, and in retrospect, the art projects under Roosevelt could have been a lot more community friendly than they were. So I've altered history to suit myself here as well. There really are web site cataloguing the many projects undertaken by the programs.
> 
> Oh, and where the boys get picked up by Nat and Clint? That's my Lowe's. Yup, I couldn't resist having the boys make a stop down the street from where I live ... :)
> 
> And the chapter of Take Up Your Shield and Follow me that occurs as this story happens (21 Guns), and the one after this one (Speechless) are not yet posted. I haven't finished writing them. But I feel this story can stand on its own.


End file.
